


Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori

by ertrunkener_Wassergeist, LightsaberWeildingDalek



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Child Soldiers, Family Feels, Gen, How to traumatise a child, Languages and Linguistics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rebellion, Rebellion Leader!Ravus, Strong!Lunafreya, Tenebrae (Final Fantasy XV), Tenebraean Culture, Violence, Violence against Children, War, What-If, Worldbuilding, all the family feels, chapter specific warnings will be at the beginning of each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2020-07-08 11:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ertrunkener_Wassergeist/pseuds/ertrunkener_Wassergeist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightsaberWeildingDalek/pseuds/LightsaberWeildingDalek
Summary: (lat.: It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country.)The Lucian royalty visits Tenebrae and the country burns. But instead of being taken into custody, Ravus escapes. Through a fluke or a twist of fate, he doesn't care. He is still alive and he wants his sister back after he realizes that she didn't escape with the cowardly King of Lucis who ran as his mother was slaughtered in front of him.Ravus wants Lunafreya back and he will do anything to do it. Even fighting a war on the losing side.Or: What if Tenebrae had an active Resistance against the Niflheimr occupation and Ravus was picked up by them after escaping the grounds of Fenestala Manor.





	1. Let the Boy try along this Bayonet-Blade

**Author's Note:**

> Please be welcome :)  
> The original idea can be lain at LightsaberWieldingDalek's feet. We ended up talking about it and it kind of snowballed from there^^  
> So at least half of the ideas seen in this story come from them and the rest from me. Thank you for allowing me to write this, you wonderful person.
> 
> A quick note before the start:  
> We made both Ravus and Lunafreya younger that they are in canon, Luna being 9 instead of 12 when the Lucis Caelums come to visit, and Ravus 13 instead of 16. We have reasons for that desicion, so please bear with us.  
> The title of the story is from a war poem called "Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen. The title of this chapter is from another poem called "Arms and the Boy" by the same author.  
> As like for every story I post, I put general warnings into the tags and chapter specific ones in front of each chapter so that people can avoid them or the story if necessary. Keep yourself safe when reading fanfiction people.
> 
> Warnings for the chapter:  
> character death, blood, desription of injuries

With wide impossibly wide eyes Ravus stared at what should have been a peaceful farewell between the royal houses of Fleuret and Lucis Caelum. The earth shuddered beneath his feet with every rattling step the MT and soldiers around him took. He could hear nothing but the blood roaring in his ears like a ravenous beast eager to swallow him whole.

Somebody screamed, high and fearful, making Ravus startle.  _ Lunafreya _ , a voice roared within his chest. A voice that was so much braver than he was. He turned around, a lost expression painting his face a pallid white. Where was Lunafreya? Where was his mother? Where-

The shot was loud, louder than the others fired in the clearing killing the people in attendance - his people, the beast in his chest screamed, these were his people that were strewn about like puppets cut from their strings,  _ dead dead dead _ \- to his ears and a sudden pain bloomed in his left arm. On instinct he tried to cover it with his other hand. The sudden near blinding pain of his hand coming in contact with the wound made him go to his knees.

The ground was dry. It hadn’t rained in days, but despite that a part of Ravus had expected the grass beneath his knees to be wet. Wet with ruby red blood, pitch black oil and... something. 

Just something.

Tears maybe.

Pain pulsed in the rhythm of his heartbeat and he could barely breathe. A sobbing breath escaped his lungs. Why? Why was this happening? They had done as Niflheim demanded for so long now. It was supposed to have kept them safe! Keep Luna safe, lively and strong Luna. And his mother. His gentle and loving mother who could not stand to see people suffer.

A sudden heaving of the ground made him look up. And made him come face to face with a MT. Its red eyes, so red he could barely look at them, stared at him dispassionately, without any feelings at all, the faceplate with its human features mocking every ancient tradition Tenebrae adhered to.

Ravus stared and did not move when the soldier - thing, never a person - held his arm out and his hand folded down until it swung from a hinge that hadn’t been visible before, granting a look at the muzzle of what was probably a gun.

Just another gun.

Like the many that were fired around him in a howling cacophony of death and madness. Still, Ravus could not make his feet move, his knees rooted into the ground. He stared at the first flickers of a flame and his mind groaned in realization. 

So it wasn’t a gun after all.

_ Stand up _ , the beast in his chest roared in tandem with the blood pumping through his veins.  _ Stand up and run! Stand up and fight! Stand up and do something! _

Heat caressed his face and he knew with a sudden certainty that this was it. This was the moment he would die. 

_ I haven’t made my burial mask yet. _

The thought hit him like a punch in the chest. Would his mother make him one? His sister? He hoped they would. That way they would find each other again when they came to join him in death.

“Ravus!”

Then, suddenly, like an avenging force, his mother was there, her beautiful cloak of blue feathers flapping behind her as she threw herself in front of him. For the fraction of a second she was wreathed in a halo of light, making her crystal crown sparkle with a thousand tiny rainbows and her golden hair glow like sunlight. 

She was utterly beautiful. He would remember this moment, this crystal sharp shard of an instant for as long as he would draw breath.

Then time caught up with him and, as if it was trying to compensate for the moment frozen in memory, from one stumbling heartbeat to the next that halo of light became fire. The flames  licked over his mother’s shoulders  with hungry fingers, nearly swallowing her whole , and the sickly sweet smell of cooking meat overwhelmed the smoke  clogging his throat and making his eyes tear up . But still she shielded him, tears dripping from his horror struck face. The sound of steel whistled through the air, and Ravus flinched, hands up to protect his face, as if that bare inch of flesh could shield him from that behemoth. 

It was more than that inch which saved him, his Mother’s body slowing the blade just enough. An agonised, animalistic scream echoed in Ravus’s ears, as he  crawled  near on all fours to be at his mother’s side - no, what used to be his mother, the face near unrecognisable. The small part of his mind that was still capable of thought distantly noted that her  burial mask would need to be intricate to remind her spirit of what she looked like. 

Ravus struggled to regain control of his voice,  to scream out for help, as he  tried to climb back upon wavering legs.  His eyes would not leave his mother’s body, her clothes and skin melted together until he could not say where one ende d and the other began. Each breath he took burnt his lungs.

“Noctis!”

The cry made him turn around, startling him from his daze. There she was. Lunafreya, his sister. She stood by the wheelchair Prince Noctis used until his legs were back at full strength.  His eyes met hers.  She was so terribly young, he realized all of the sudden. Her eyes were wide in fear and shock, her face as white as the Queens’ from the water. Ravus lurched towards Lunafreya, but the  raging fire  was an impenetrable  moat between them. 

The Lucian King, Regis,  hurried towards his son , cradling him close as that monster in the armour crashed into one of the tall, ancient trees surrounding them. He cradled his son close, as another squad of MTs grew near.

“Help us”, Ravus rasped, begging, finally finding his voice in a desperate attempt to make something happen. “Please, help us,  King Regis! ”

And , instead of staying and beating back the scary , evil things haunting them like in the stories, the Crystal King ran, dragging his sister behind. 

Ravus  could do nothing but watch in utter disbelief as the mighty King of Lucis ran like a coward. For a split second Lunafreya looked back and Ravus would always remember that face. So full of shock and desperation it nearly clawed his heart out in pain.  Ravus dropped his head to weep, as the vast encircling fire grew closer and closer , the near unbearable heat singing his skin.

_ At least  _ _ I won’t be apart from you for long, _ _ Mother _ .  He hoped they would find each other again, even without the masks to help remind them of themselves and each other. 

There was blood on his mother’s cloak. It stained the beautiful blue feathers but even they couldn’t hide the ugly tear within that the sword had caused. It was her favourite. Had been, he corrected himself with a ruthlessness he hadn’t known he possessed and fought the urge to  vomit . 

So focused was he that he didn’t hear the thundering steps shaking the ground beneath armoured feet, grass and earth giving away beneath the crushing weight.  When a huge hand  grabbed  Ravus by the collar, he almost didn't notice. But  as it proceeded to drag away from what was left of  his Mother, his hands  scrabbled uselessly in the air, the numbness of true horror filling his mind.  He could not be away from her.  _ He couldn’t! _

Ravus  forced his eyes to meet those of his captor’s, to at least die with the bravery befitting a soldier of Tenebrae, to see the face of his enemy and curse him in death, but all there was, was a twisted, almost profane, parody of a face, angular and pointed, sick light glistening from stretched, dark sockets.  His breath stuttered in his lungs. He blinked the tears from his eyes.  _ Death is a fact of life every living thing has to confront at some point _ , his mother had said the day they had made his father’s burial mask, even though they had never been able to find the body.

The blade  that had stolen his mother’s life, bloodstained and huge and utterly terrifying, gleamed in the light of the all consuming fires as it was directed towards him. Death was a fact of life and he would have to confront it sooner than others.

If at all, there was barely any warning. A hissing sound maybe, high and shrill, a quiver in the air, as if the world was holding its breath. For a moment there was fire everywhere. On his skin, in his lungs, behind his eyes was nothing but warping flashes of light and his ears rang until he didn’t know anymore which way was up and which down. The monster in front of him relinquished its hold and then Ravus was sent flying like a ragdoll.

Blessedly cool shadows encompassed him. His back hit rough bark before he could comprehend what had happened and forced the last bit of air he had out of his lungs. He couldn’t even scream. 

_ Breathe! _ The shrill voice in his head screamed.  _ Breathe you idiot! _

A shuddering breath forced itself past his numb lips as he lay on the ground, not able to even move a finger. If he could have, he would have howled in agony in that very moment. The blessed air left him again accompanied by a choked whimper. 

Ravus forced his body to turn on its side and nearly lost consciousness. 

All along his right side the only thing he could feel was pain. The cough building at the back of his throat wouldn’t come and forced him to take hacking gulps of air that made his chest heave.  H e did not know for how long he had lain there,  but the ringing in his ears stopped and he could hear furious yells not too far from him. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but the tiny part of him that had managed to flee from the pain into the deepest depths of his mind, knew that there would be nothing good coming from the voices. If - when - if they managed to find him.

Fingers grasping uselessly at the grass, Ravus forced himself onto his knees and breathed a soundless moan of pain. The taste of bitter bile and coppery blood on his tongue made him heave again, but he forced himself to grab the tree he had fallen against and proceeded to stand up on shaking legs. The bark dug painfully into his hands but he ignored it as best as he could.

The voices behind him grew closer.

His first step nearly sent him down on the ground again. Somehow he remained standing, an ancient instinct forcing him to move and to keep moving. So he did with each limping step and ragged breath that felt like it would be his last.  He knew  these garden s ,  had  learned to walk here. They didn’t.

With limping steps Ravus stumbled along the near invisible path winding around the ancient trees like a snake. The sound of splintering wood and rattling armour accompanied by the furious yells of a warbled voice that would follow him into his deepest nightmares, made him force his legs to move faster. If they found him, they would kill him without hesitation.

Here was the clearing that he and his father would spar with branches in, there was the river beach Luna took her first steps on. Every tree and rock held so many memories, now burning and breaking beneath uncaring feet.

Each breath he took made pain flare in his throat and each following one just made it that tiny little bit worse. He did not dare to look at the mess that was his right arm. Every few steps it would twitch and sent pinpricks of white hot pain up his shoulder and behind his eyes. The world in front of him was nothing more than a cluster of fuzzy shapes and blurry watercolours like the pictures his sister loved to paint so much. Despite that, his feet found their way along the path his pursuers would not be able to see, if they didn’t know about it, making their pursuit just that little bit slower.

After reaching the outermost edge of the garden, Ravus veered off the path and past the subtle border behind which the true forest began. Here the massive trees crowded closer, making the shadows darker and deeper. Or maybe that was the effect of the dwindling daylight. He couldn’t say.

Again he stumbled, but this time his hand couldn’t find a branch and or tree trunk to catch himself. Instead his hand found only air and for one moment it seemed to Ravus as if he was floating over an edge he couldn’t see. Then the gravity took hold of him and sent him tumbling down a grassy ravine, coming to a stop beneath thorny bushes with thick woolly leaves.

The bleeding scratches along his face and hands made it somehow so much worse. Darkness edged into his already blurry vision. The voice of the monster that had killed his mother sounded close but like it came from under water. The ground shook beneath heavy steps and the world spun as blackness swept him away from the pain and despair. For a time, at least.

* * *

Consciousness returned to him in small bursts and sharp fragments. The smell of dry earth, moss and fallen leaves was first, then came the sound of wind whispering in the branches and the utter lack of birds singing or small animals rustling in the undergrowth. Cool air caressed his skin and the wind brought with it the smell of burning things.  The Pain returned with his waking, dancing under his skin, spiking out with the taste of copper on his tongue. 

At once his eyes flew open. His right one, however, stayed glued shut and Ravus remembered enough of his mother’s lectures to not touch it or force it open. The thought sent a painful stab through his heart. He saw her again, during that one beautiful moment before the fire had engulfed her, and closed his eye to escape the image. It stayed. So he forced his eye open again to at least see something different. Anything but that.

It was dark.

How long had he been unconscious? The forest was eerily silent as he strained his ears to listen. Something tense in him loosened. There were no furious yells or clanging steps thundering between the trees anymore.

The moon rose, casting stark shadows across the forest as Ravus struggled to rise. Once… Twice… Thrice…. On the fourth attempt, he managed to pull himself up, clinging onto a tree trunk for dear life.  Escaping the thorn bushes which must have shielded him from the searching eyes of his enemies, proved to be a near impossible chore when each tiny movement sent lances of pain through his body.  The silvery, stark light turned the once familiar area into an alien landscape, full of half glimpsed faces and invisible tripwires.

Ravus didn’t know how long it took him to stumble into the city proper, but when he fell for the hundredth time, and landed in a bin rather than moss, the moon was high in the sky, staring down at him.

He curled up, out of sight of the main road, and cradled his side, pressing his face against the blessedly cool brick. Everything ached. His once immaculate uniform was torn and burnt.  _ And here  _ _ lies _ _ the Prince of Tenebrae _ , he thought,  _ hiding behind the bins _ . The snort he gave at that thought made his throat burn, and his hands fluttered automatically  towards the pain. A horrifying crispy squelch sounded in the alley, followed by almost a minute of poorly-suppressed gasps of pain. 

The scream lodged in his throat passed his lips as a wispy thing that made nary a sound. Water. He needed water. And a doctor, he added once his mind registered more than the steady beating of his heart and the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair that followed him like a shroud.

As Ravus attempted to regain his breath, a creaking door banged open, flooding the dark alley with warm yellow light. He pulled himself down out of sight, his body instinctively curled into a tight ball to protect itself, as a pair of wrinkled feet in flowery blue slippers shuffled towards his hiding spot. As a last resort, he turned his face towards the wall, to at least attempt to hide his identity.

“Oh dear,  what by the icy winds of Shiva’s breath ”, came an  o ld  w oman’s voice, kindly, and ever so slightly familiar , followed by the clutter of fallen rubbish bags.  “You can’t stay here, dearie. There’s been an attack, the Niflheim r soldiers will  take anyone into custody who’s out this late at night. The shelter two streets down i s taking in everyone tonight  without asking questions , even though they won’t have  enough beds,  I imagine .” 

Ravus was sure that if he took shelter there, he would be discovered by th ose twisted  things masquerading as living, breathing beings before the sun rose. He stayed stock still, hoping she would leave.

“Dearie?” A hand , soft with wrinkles and age but still strong, touched his shoulder. “ By the Six !  Is that blood? ” 

T he woman pulled back.  Ravus could hear her stumbling back in shock, her voice gaining a shrill quality that grated in his ears and made the throbbing in his head worse. Struck by the sudden fear , that this woman calling the authorit i es would only get him shoved in to a military cell  or worse , Ravus spun round, pain flaring up again  and making his vision flash white for a heartstopping long moment , to gra b the woman ’ s hand with his  left, uninjured one . 

“You let me go, before I\- Prince Ravus?!”

Ravus recognised this woman’s face now, at least a little. She was a retainer of his mother’s  who had gotten leave to arrange the funeral of a deceased family member. He couldn’t remember who. His tongue felt like a swollen and useless piece of flesh as he tried to twist it to form words but didn’t manage more than a hoarse rattling. He clamped his mouth shut in an attempt to swallow. It didn’t help.

The old woman’s face had gone deathly pale, her countenance gaining a sickly yellow tint in the light that still shone through the open door. Distantly he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. It couldn’t be pretty. He squinted his one good eye at her as she seemed to shake herself out of her shock and squared her shoulders. 

“Come, your highness,'' she whispered, urgency clear in her voice. “Come”, she said again , as she gripped his arm and helped him stand.

They were of a height. It made it easier for both of them since his legs threatened to give out again with every new step he took. The stairs up to her apartment took far longer to climb than he cared to remember. Not that he later remembered more than blurry images, insistent tugging and the urge to just sit down, yielding to whatever fate may come. 

The next thing  Ravus knew, he was lowered into an overstuffed chair, and the  w oman wrung her hands as he worked out how to breathe steadily again. She bustled back and forth, hiding messes as she glanced at the  r oyalty in her home.  She was clearly near a nervous breakdown of her own.

Eventually she whipped out a washcloth. “Let me help you clean up a little,” she muttered, moving close to wipe Ravus’ face. He tried to protest, but his first reaction, to speak, stopped him  from doing anything other than grit his teeth against the pain.

The first moment he felt nothing but blessed coolness from the water, but then the pressure rose as the woman - he still couldn’t remember her name - tried to scrub at the dried blood on his throat. Something moved in the wound. If he could have screamed, he would have. Instead the air left him through clenched teeth in a wheezing breath as blinding hot pain shot through every nerve of his being. He felt his limbs seize as he lost control of his body, a bubbling whistle emerging from his throat as he tried to howl again in absolute agony.

As if from far away he could hear the woman scream. It was the last thing he heard as the blessed darkness washed over him again and took the pain and everything else with it.


	2. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beloved Queen's funeral and an unwilling coronation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note:  
> Both Niflheim and Tenebrae have their own language. In this 'verse Lucian is the lingua franca, so the few foreign terms used will be shown at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> Tenebrani (language of Tenebrae):  
> élèvet = form of address for a viceroy
> 
> Nifasi (language of Niflheim):  
> fanis = set phrase marking the end of an official (in the past mostly religious) speech  
> sitrapp = viceroy

Lunafreya tried to steady her shaking hands, to keep her breath even and only concentrate upon the task in front of her. She could not fail at this. If she did the consequences may be disastrous. 

_ Ravus should be here to do this, not me. I should be the one helping him. He has such steady hands. _

Her breath hitched and she desperately tried to keep it in, to cease breathing altogether, but her traitorous body made her release it in a heaving sob when her sight started to blur from lack of oxygen. Oxygen. A word her mother had taught her mere weeks before.

Another sobbing breath.

She could cry if she wanted to. No one was there to see, as she was alone in her mother’s study. Resolutely she scrubbed the growing tears from her eyes. After she had done this, she could cry all she wanted but now there was no time for it. Not when she had to do the tasks Ravus should have done were he here. 

On the desk in front of her laid a heavy, open book. Her mother’s flower lexicon. Her own flower lexicon now, she supposed. If Niflheim deigned to let her keep it, that was. 

Its paper was thick and cream with the pictures of the flowers and various plants related to Tenebrani flower language, shown in detailed hand drawings. The pages were currently practically buried under papers full of practice drawings, pencils and unused paint brushes.

Despite her young age, Lunafreya knew that the situation she now was in would not be easy for both her or her brother - wherever he had managed to hide - and not only because she had witnessed her mother’s death. The last thing she had seen of her brother was him kneeling by their mother’s side begging King Regis for help. Lunafreya had seen the pure desperation in Ravus’ eyes and hadn’t been able to run anymore, her strength leaving her, and so she had stayed. A small part of her whispered that that had been a truly bad idea.

Hopefully Ravus would stay hidden, even if she desperately wanted him to be here with her to make their mother’s burial mask.

If he was still alive, a traitorous voice whispered in her mind. But he had to be. He just  _ had _ to.

Her fingers skimmed the slightly uneven surface of the mask in her lap. The features didn’t resemble her mother, not truly. Her captors had forbidden her from commissioning one of the specialized artisans to craft it. Traditionally, a royal burial mask was crafted from fine ceramic edged in silver. This one, however, was made from clay, formed by the inexperienced hands of a child helped by one of the maids who had taken pity on her.

What silver leaf Lunafreya had been able to scrounge together, she had used to line the eyes and lips, the edges slightly uneven. Now she sat there, forcing her hands to stay steady as she proceeded to carefully paint flowers upon its surface. They formed a band from the lower left to the upper right. Lunafreya knew the barest minimum about actually arranging the flowers, so she grouped them together the way she liked them, and hoped it would be enough for her mother’s soul to remember herself.

She started with the sage, as that had been what her mother was with her deepest devotion. A healer.

* * *

The sun set and Lunafreya continued to struggle, her small hands smudged with paint and formal dress stained and crumpled. She had been here all day, hidden in her mother’s study, to pick out the flowers and painstakingly paint them with unpracticed hands upon the mask.

Even as the light faded, she squinted by the large, ornate window, before harsh electric light sparked in sudden brightness. Lunafreya flinched back from where her nose was nearly touching the drying paint. Luckily the paintbrush hadn’t been touching the clay surface, otherwise there would now be an ugly purple stain on its cheek.

The harsh sound of metal boots on marble grated against her ears. Not a second later the door was thrown open violently enough that it crashed against the wall, and a struggling old man was pulled into the room, dressed only in night clothes. A rifle was pointed at him as he puffed and panted, clearly not having been able to keep up with these soldiers.

His wizened face was streaked by teartracks, and a large black eye was forming over a bruise the shape of a rifle’s butt. Stammering, he turned to the soldiers who dragged him in: “I-I-I can’t do this here, there are ceremonies! Please, General Glauca has to know- The crown, the sceptre, everything! We’re not even at the Oracle’s temple!”

His voice was high pitched and loud in his panic.

She knew who this poor old man was without having to look. He was the High Priest of Shiva. If the Oracle was unable to preside over a holy ceremony, it was him who did it. Last year he had spoken the grace of the new year because her mother had been away to help the rising number of scourge-sick.

Lunafreya curled into a ball, tears dripping silently down her face, as a second bruise was added to match the first, the old man crumpling to the floor. She ducked her head as a steel toed boot thudded into his gut, and a scream echoed through the high-ceilinged room. 

Eventually, a shaking hand touched Lunafreya’s shoulder. Much quieter than before, his voice rough from screaming the old man asked: “Do you-” a harsh cough splattered fine droplets of blood onto her dress “h-h-have a crown?”

Not able to bring herself to speak, Lunafreya reached for her mother’s desk and opened the topmost drawer, revealing the circlet sitting there, the one her mother likes - liked, she reminded herself, a tear dripping from her nose - to wear for informal photos.

The dripping of blood on marble sounded like a drumbeat in the silent room. Luna shivered as the empty eyes of the magitek soldiers drilled into her through opaque masks, a twisted parody of the mask sitting forgotten in her lap.

A quavering voice filled her ears, circlet held high above her head with trembling hands. 

“I speak in the name of Shiva, the Glacian, the final kiss of winter, the last breath. I hold up to the Gods this wo- girl”, he quickly corrected, but even that small stumble had an ominous click coming from the nearest gun as it was pointed at the High Priest’s back.

Blood splattered the priests fist as he coughed again. “This girl, blood of the Oracles, first born daughter of the Oracle Sylva Via Fleuret, whom now walks in Ramuh’s Domain. “

_ No she doesn’t _ , whispered that voice in Luna’s mind once more, as she stares transfixed in horror at the old man.  _ Mother has to drown first. _

The words continued, but Lunafreya they sounded as if spoken underwater. Only now did she realize this is was a coronation. Her initiation as an Oracle. The only reason she would be crowned was if- she couldn’t even think of it.

The plain silver circlet was lowered onto her head, stained with fresh blood, and tilting awkwardly down one side. 

In the reflection of the dark window, Lunafreya saw a slight young girl, eyes wide and tearful and blonde hair touched with red at the temples. The too large circlet only emphasising her age. Or rather her lack thereof. 

For the first time since her mother burned, Lunafreya seemed to wake from her shock, looking out at the city. Its lights twinkled in the growing darkness as if nothing had happened a mere two days ago.

The High Priest bowed as low as he was able, nightclothes stained a deep red. 

“My Lady,” he rasped. But not queen.

The 114th Oracle of Tenebrae, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, burst into tears.

* * *

The first silvery grey bands of the morning lightened the horizon over the still waters of Queensgrave Bay, its waters a deep black full of nightly shadows that clung to the arriving day. A single long rowing boat rocked gently by the shore, its oars neatly tucked in and new midnight blue paint barely dry enough for it not to dissipate into the water. The sheer cloth, light as a breeze, that should cover the precious cargo it carried, was instead a solid, heavy fabric that reminded Lunafreya of a bed sheet. 

The young princess stood in front of the gathered crowd, dressed in a heavy gown of midnight blue, her royal mourning mask covering the right half of her face. After making her mother’s burial mask and organizing a funeral boat with the help of a few servants she hadn’t had the time to make a personalized one. 

Next to her stood the man who would rule Tenebrae from now on as a protectorate of Niflheim. His name was Forsett Dunridge and Lunafreya could practically feel the oily and greedy aura the man gave off. He wore a mourning mask that covered the right half of his face, which was coloured a solid blue and had no adornments. Lunafreya wanted to tear it off his face and claw the man’s eyes out while she was at it.

But she couldn’t.

Instead she refused to look at him as he gave his speech. There wasn’t supposed to be a speech. Or any talking at all. Burials, especially royal ones, were to be attended in silence. 

Everything about this  _ Élèvet _ Dunridge was aggravating, but right now it was especially his voice. It was a nasally thing, strangely high pitched and the man made what he probably thought was a dramatic pause, every three words. Lunafreya concentrated on the crowd in front of her, on the blank stares and barely veiled fury paired with resignation she found there, and forced herself to listen. If she wanted to survive, to fulfill her calling, she needed to know this man as best as she could.

“... is our solemn duty to now bid farewell to one of Eos’ greatest women. Her grace and beauty will be missed by all. May the Astrals watch over her passing and guide her into the Beyond. Fanis.”

Finally, there was silence. Only now that he stopped speaking did Élèvet Dunridge seem to realize that something was not quite right. Viciously, Lunafreya wondered if it was the lack of applause that tipped him off. The new viceroy stood there, in his garish black and red military style robes that were supplemented by pieces of decorative armour in the newest Niflheimr fashion, clearly waiting for something to happen.

Lunafreya could practically feel the man vibrate in impacience, before he gave a quiet huff and waved to a group of soldiers standing at the edge of the crowd near her mother’s funeral boat. They weren’t those new magitek soldiers but actual Niflheimr people in flesh and blood. The young princess counted seven of them, one of them clearly of a higher rank. They all wore helmets that reminded her of buckets with bars through which she could see their faces.

The crowd grew visibly nervous as they started to move and arranged themselves at the shore, near the water’s edge, close to the boat in which her mother lay dead. Three on one side, three on the other and their leader in front of them. All but him carried elaborate rifles at their sides.

He gave an order. Lunafreya couldn’t understand it over the sound of the wind dancing over the glittering waves. In a few precise movements the other six held the rifles out in front of them, as the sun rose over the horizon another order came to which they aimed their guns into the air and fired.

Lunafreya jerked in surprise and she could feel her stomach drop in dread. Her brother’s face as the shot clipped his arm flashed through her mind and all she could do was to suppress the urge to scream, tugging it tightly behind her clenched teeth. Other people in the crowd broke their solemn silence in their fear, as they screamed and ducked for cover. 

Again, the six soldiers fired, the sound of the shots echoing over the still waters and the wide plaza of Queensgrave Bay. It was near deafening. But through all that noise, the gunshots and the people screaming below them, she could still hear what Dunridge said: “And these are the people I’m supposed to rule? Pathetic.”

Silence gradually descended upon the beach again when it became clear that no more shots would be fired. Lunafreya stood there, next to this vile man, and had no idea what to do. Sweat made the palm of her hands slick and dripped down her neck. Her skin prickled uncomfortably as she slowly and carefully turned towards Dunridge. 

“May I ask what this was about, Élèvet Dunridge?” she asked, her voice carefully soft and her hands clasped in front of her.

The man stared at her, disdain clear in his watery eyes. “Sitrapp, if you please, or Viceroy, if you must. It is customary to salute a deceased leader in this way.” He hesitated for barely a moment before adding, as if it was an afterthought: “Is this not done here?”

Lunafreya swallowed dryly around her nervousness and scrambled for a fitting answer. Dunridge however, had already turned away from her to watch the following proceedings. 

_ He does not care. _

The realization hit her like one of Ramuh’s devine lightning bolts. She didn’t know why deep down she had clung to the faintest hope that this man might respect Tenebrae. It had been stupid. So utterly stupid. The foolish hope of a foolish little girl. It nearly made her break down again right then and there. 

The only thing keeping her upright and her tears at bay as the soldiers returned to their original spot with brisk steps and four servants dressed in midnight blue and dark silver robes started to push her mother’s funeral boat into the still ocean, was her will to not prove this man next to her right. 

She knew he thought her to be a weak willed little child he had to put up with because she was the next Oracle - no, she was the Oracle now and that thought burned like acid in her mind. She knew he thought of the Tenebrani as wimpy weaklings who should not have the international influence and power they had. And now he was saddled with them. 

The solid blue cloth covering her mother fluttered in the wind as the boat slowly drifted out into the bay as if to remind her why she stood there, on the bay, in the first place. A breeze tugged gently at a strand of her blonde hair, like her mother had often done when reprimanding her for not paying attention. 

Her mother was right: she could think about such things later. Now she needed to fokus. 

She needed to be ready to sing the traditional tunes the moment the boat started to sink. It wasn’t a song sung in words, but a series of notes, rising and falling, made to imitate the tides in respect to Leviathan. 

Behind her, the crowd joined her, voices lifting in the wind, the tones a plea for the Hydraean to guide the dead Queen through her depths. And Lunafreya watched as her mother drowned.

She could still see the sinking ship in her mind like a recording, playing again and again and again, as she was pushed towards an armoured car, waiting just at the end of the plaza. Dunridge had clamped a meaty hand on her shoulder the moment she had started to sing in a subtle attempt to guide her off the platform. But she had refused to budge. This was a duty she refused to abandon with every ounce of strength left within her. 

The sinking boat was still visible as a black shadow under the water, as mutterings rose within the crowd she was being pushed through. Magitek soldiers in front of her pushed the spectators aside mercilessly to free the way.

They hadn’t made it past the halfway point when the mutterings turned into loud and angry voices. And when she tore her eyes from where she knew the glittering ocean to be, as rocks began to hail down around them, and the man behind her ordered “Warning shots”, the young Oracle’s eyes met another’s, eyes as cold as ice.

* * *

Shiva, the Glacian, the Gentle, the Beauty of the first Snow, carefully suppressed the urge of her host-body to huff in annoyance. She would not lower herself to that mortal reaction. She couldn’t, however, contain her ire enough to not freeze a train conveniently coming up near her corpse-body. 

Everything had gone wrong. So horribly wrong. 

The sacrifice-child was far too caught in her own head, drowning in grief and self-pity, to be of any use for now. Her brother had disappeared. Somehow he was hiding from her divine gaze. It made her feel… disconcerted. 

She needed to find him again. And fast. That boy may just be a backup, but power still slept within his blood. Power, that should not go unsupervised and unguided by the right hands. But that would have to come later. For now she needed to be the one to lend the sacrifice-child a sympathetic ear.

She kept watching until the car started to drive away from the angry mob, and the blighted puppet soldiers retaliated in kind to their growing unrest. Then she vanished, unnoticed, in a gust of icy cold wind to await her charge within her chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> We hope you liked this chapter and had fun reading.  
> The title is a quote from the poem For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon.  
> Until next time :)
> 
> P.S. LightsaberWieldingDalek wants it to be known that ertrunkener_Wassergeist is the best writer they ever had the pleasure to work with.  
> (Lekka, you have to stop flattering me all the time. I have to stop blushing one of these days, you know?)


	3. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sovereignty is lost and anger stirs.

The summons hit Maria like a surge of ice cold water to the face. Or a hangover like she used to get, after all those parties she had gone to in her late teenage years. The world had seemed so much easier back then, or just more manageable. Whoever had said that it would get easier with age had clearly lied. 

But she hadn’t been able to say no. Not with the wobbly and childish lettering of the signature staring up at her in accusation. Not when she felt like she had failed in her duty to take care of the royal family. The self-blame was irrational, some part of her knew that, but with the summon in her hands and a prince fighting for his life in the backroom of a veterinary clinic, she could not bring herself to care.

So Maria found herself back in Fenestala Manor. There was nothing she could do for her prince now, but if her presence would help her princess, she would do her best. It was the very least she could do.

She and the other, now former, handmaidens to the Queen, helped the slip of a girl with the only set of royal raiment that fit her frame. Maria did her best to keep the robe’s light, but still, the little Oracle nearly buckled under the weight of the formal crown. 

It was a headdress made of never melting ice, a sign of the divine blessing their line had held since the dawn of the new era. This would be the only time Lady Lunafreya could wear it, Maria silently mourned. 

The Princess yelped as Maria’s hands twisted from fury in her hair. Maria hardly heard herself apologise over the shame and rage that filled her mind. The handmaidens were supposed to protect their Queen, die for her. In the old days, a handmaiden who outlived her Queen would drown with her in the end. The women who bustled round Lunafreya were dead in all but flesh, and yet this  _ Viceroy _ believed they were nothing more than maids.

Princess Lunafreya was such a sweet child and to see her like this was a tragedy. Not even ten years of age and already an orphan, forced to smile prettily for the people who had ripped her whole family apart. 

Maria could barely stand to watch this farce of a ceremony.

Stil, she stood in a row with all of Queen Sylva’s handmaidens, a demure expression on her face, her old hands delicately folded in front of her dark blue skirts. 

None of them looked happy and at least two wore ornate hairpins long and sharp enough to stab someone. One Lady-in-Waiting was even so bold as to wear yellow roses and carnations. Until now none of the invaders had noticed, or cared to.

That uncultured swine, Dunridge, stood next to her princess, dwarfing her small form. Maria’s heart leapt in her chest as he grabbed the sweet girl’s shoulder with one of his meaty hands and practically pushed her towards the opulent marble desk where the ‘treaty’ laid. 

At least the Niflheimr had called it a treaty. However everybody knew what it really was: their surrender, their capitulation. The moment Princess Lunafreya signed these papers all of Tenebrae would become a region of the Empire of Niflheim, it would lose its independence and its royal house.

Maria couldn’t help but marvel at her princess’ strength as she refused to bend under the pressure the…  _ Viceroy _ was putting on her and took carefully measured steps towards the table.

The table was of a cream coloured marble, shot through with delicate splashes of rosé. It was a beautiful piece of work, one of the many presents the then-untitled Oracle King of Lucis had sent in condolence and to affirm the bonds between their nations. 

Even from her position Maria could see the treaty on the desk. Stark white paper, embossed with the royal sigils of Niflheim and Tenebrae. It hurt to look at it and Maria liked to think that it wasn’t just because of the light. 

Cameras flashed as Dunridge stopped speaking and signed the treaty with a flourish, a triumphant and smug smile on his face. The room was deathly still as Princess Lunafreya picked up the pen. 

She wore another dress in deep sea blue - and would most likely wear this colour for as long as she could. The crown she wore for official ceremonies sparkled in her blond hair. It didn’t matter that she was a girl of only nine years of age, and that she most likely would never bear the title; in that moment Lunafreya was every inch the queen she was born to be.

It took her nearly thrice as long as it had Dunridge to sign the treaty - the one written in Nifasi and the one written in Tenebrani - and Maria suspected that was entirely intentional. The old handmaiden had to bite her tongue to keep from smiling at that lout’s growing impatience.

Maria was proud of her princess - her queen. She would have to learn when to choose her battles, but Lunafreya already had a keen instinct for it. Using her age like this, was clever. Maria resolved to teach the young Oracle how to utilize small acts of defiance. How they sometimes could have a more severe impact than the greatest of acts.

The camera flashes were nearly blinding in their brightness.

The moment the princess, now officially a lady, in acknowledgement of her being the Oracle, as Dunridge had called it, put down the pen, the Nifasi crowd erupted into thundering applause.

No Tenebrani in attendance moved a muscle as their nation ceased to exist in the eyes of the Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wanders in half a year late*  
> Hey guys!  
> Sooooo, it's not very long, but it is a continuation!  
> On the flowers mentioned: Yellow roses normally mean friendship, but they can also be read as malevolence/resentment. Yellow carnarions are a solid "I despise you." So yeah, that lady really has it out for any Niff daring to come too close.  
> Deep sea blue is the colour of mourning. I know it was mentioned in the fic, but it's been some time. So, yeah...  
> Anyway *claps hands* Anyone else down for the headcanon of badass handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting? I know I am.  
> If any terms LightsaberWieldingDalek and me come up with - like 'Nifasi' and 'Tenebrani' - are confusing, please tell us, so we can elaborate on them.  
> The title is from the poem "Funeral Blues" by W. H. Auden.  
> 'Till next time :D


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